


Breaking The Ice

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-The Final Problem, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 12:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11967912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: After Sherrinford, Mycroft demands to know why Sherlock didn't shoot him.





	Breaking The Ice

 

# 1

 

“It is what it is,” John said when they watched Eurus being dragged into the helicopter by the policemen.

Sherlock thought that if he didn't have to hear this sentence ever again, it would be too soon. “Let’s go then.” Back to Mrs Hudson's guest room where he had stayed the night before after the explosion had destroyed his flat in the morning. It seemed like ages ago already. He and John had gone into the house with the crying landlady, and she had succeeded in getting her feelings under control pretty quickly and called for a construction company to begin with the cleaning and build-up right that day and had offered Sherlock to stay with her until he could move in again. Thank God not all of his clothes and other belongings had been destroyed so there was no need to run around naked…

“Get some of your stuff and come over to me, Sherlock. Rosie and I have plenty of space.”

“Oh, that's nice, John, thank you,” Sherlock said gratefully. They started walking when his phone buzzed with a call. He grimaced. Apparently Mycroft had gotten his phone back as well. “Hello?”

_“Can you tell me what goes on in your mind?”_

“What… What do you mean? I just asked Lestrade to have someone look after you.”

_“I don't mean that! Not that I need a babysitter, thank you very much! I'm on my way home to organise everything for Eurus to be locked away for good now.”_

“Well, that's good then. Do you have your own people taking over?”

_“You can bloody bet on that! But don't change the subject! What is wrong with you?”_

And finally Sherlock understood what his brother was about. He stood, causing John to stop as well and look at him questioningly. “I don't know what you're talking about. Everything is sorted now. See you sometime then.”

_“Sherlock! Don't you dare hang up on me! Why the hell did you point the gun at your stupid head?!”_

Sherlock closed his eyes. “I brought all of us out of there alive. You're welcome, brother.”

_“Oh no, I want to hear why! It was all sorted!”_

“Sorted?! How? By me shooting you? Are you mad?” He stopped, terrified about his loss of control. He had almost said too much.

There was silence for a long while. Perhaps it had already been too much… He hardly recognised Mycroft's voice when he finally spoke again but he was relieved that he didn't say something else. _“It was all my fault, Sherlock. I should have taken much better care of her incarceration. She should have never been able to do all this. I'm sorry…”_

Sherlock couldn't remember having heard his brother apologising to him before. Ever. “You couldn't know that they ignored your orders. You thought everything was fine. And before you say now you should have known it better: maybe. But I'd say a death sentence would be a bit too hard for this mistake if you want to call it that.” He knew he had sounded snarky and he hated it. But it was still better than to let his feelings shine through again.

Now Mycroft sounded like his cold, stiff self again. _“That still doesn't explain your actions. It was madness. It seems all of my siblings are uncontrollable and right-out crazy. Why can you never do what you are told?”_

The contempt in his voice hurt Sherlock more than he had thought it was possible. It was worse than being stabbed into his heart. “And do what – kill you? You?” He huffed out an unamused laugh. “And you call yourself the smart one.”

 _“I don't understand.”_ The confusion in Mycroft's voice made it just worse for Sherlock.

“I know. You never understood. Nothing.”

 _“Understood what?”_ Mycroft's voice was pressed and so quiet Sherlock could barely hear it.

“What you mean to me…” Sherlock gasped when he realised that he had finally given it away. Not all, but way too much. He ended the connection and switched off his phone. With an angry gesture, he wiped over his suddenly wet eyes. And then he met John's gaze. The doctor was staring at him with wide open eyes. Sherlock didn't know if his brother had caught the true meaning behind his words, but his friend definitely had. “Let’s finally get into the fucking helicopter. I want to get away from here.”

“God, Sherlock, I had no idea.”

“John, just forget it. It's all fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

“So that’s why you never…”

“Please, John – don’t!”

“Alright, Sherlock. Let's just go home.”

John put a hand on his shoulder, and Sherlock almost cried at the comforting touch. This had been the worst day of his life and all he wanted to do now was sleeping, and he hoped more than anything that Mycroft would never get what he had really told him.

*****

Sherlock stuffed his clothes into the slightly burnt travel bag when he heard the front door open up. His eyes met John's, and the doctor balled his hands into fists in default of carrying his gun with him. But then Sherlock recognised the steps in the corridor and shook his head. “It's Mycroft.”

“Oh.”

That summed it up pretty well, Sherlock thought.

 _“Mr Holmes, what are you doing here so late? And since when do you have a key to my house and my flat?”_ he heard his landlady ask in a rather shrill tone.

 _“Mrs Hudson,”_ was Mycroft's laconic reply.

Sherlock turned around and then his brother was standing in the door of the guest room. “Ready?” he said with a completely indifferent expression and tone.

“Ready to go to John's, yes,” Sherlock said, trying to keep any trembling out of his voice. With little success…

“You're staying with me. I'm waiting in the car. Goodnight, Doctor Watson.” With this he was gone.

 “What the hell should I do?” Sherlock said after a few seconds of silence. And he knew how he sounded – as if he was in panic.

“Well, guess your brother won't take _no_ for an answer,” John said dryly. “Go with him, Sherlock.”

“But… I just can't!”

“Perhaps he's just afraid that Eurus still has a killer on you who could harm you.”

That made sense. He certainly still had to be investigating how this all could have happened and organising the future dealing with their sister. And God knew if she didn't really have someone outside who could be a danger. “But what if…” He couldn't say it.

“What if he's not as opposed to it as you're thinking?” John said seriously.

“But… You don't mind? I mean if anything… happens?” What was he saying at all?! It would never happen!

“I'd have never thought we'd have this conversation, Sherlock, but no, I wouldn't mind. Whatever makes you happy, it's fine. As long as you don't get hurt.”

“He would never hurt me.”

“I know. And you wouldn't hurt anyone else with it, either. So whose business is it?”

“But you totally dislike him!”

“He tried to sacrifice himself today so you wouldn't shoot me. I know he did it for you, not for me. But the result is the same. It did make him a little more sympathetic to me! And it proves how much you mean to him. Go now. If you need to talk, you can always call me or come over. Day and night.”

Sherlock made a step to him and embraced him. “Thanks so much, John.” And then he grabbed his bag and left the house.

He walked slowly to the long, black limousine that was standing on the pavement. He spotted his brother on the backseat behind the driver and opened the door. Mycroft didn't pay any attention to him; he was talking into his phone. Sherlock climbed into the car, and after one raising of Mycroft's hand, it drove off.

Mycroft didn't get off his phone until they had arrived at his house. Both of them got out of the car, and the driver offered to carry Sherlock's bag. “No, thanks, it's fine.”

Mycroft dropped the hand with the phone and said: “I won't need you anymore until seven am, goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sir.” With this the uniformed driver left them alone.

Mycroft continued talking into his phone and led the way into the house. Still without even looking at Sherlock, he walked to a room, opened the door and gestured for him to enter it. It was a generous guest room with a big bed and even a flatscreen telly. Sherlock turned around to thank Mycroft, but he was gone already. With a sigh, he put his few belongings into the wardrobe and then lay down on the bed. He knew he had to take a shower and undress, but he was too wired for doing anything but lying there and listening to the thrumming of his own heart and the noises of running water and the sounds of drawers being opened and shut and the quiet rumbling of his brother's voice.

He realised that he had fallen asleep when said voice startled him. “Sherlock, you must eat something. Come into the living room.”

Sherlock couldn't see him as the room was completely dark. “I… need a shower first.”

“Alright. Go ahead. It's a bathroom directly next your room. Towels are on the shelf.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

*****

When Sherlock walked into the living room, showered and dressed in a more or less fresh shirt and trousers, Mycroft was finished with barking into his phone. He sat on the not very comfortably looking couch and had a glass in his hand. Sherlock could have imagined having a drink now as well but instead he took a sandwich from a plate on the table and started to eat. He only now realised that he was starving.

He glanced over to his brother and saw that even in the dim light, he looked extremely exhausted and yes, depressed. When he sensed Sherlock's look, Mycroft raised the shields at once, trying to look like his indifferent self. But Sherlock had already seen enough. “You think she still has people outside who could do anything to me?”

Mycroft sighed and rubbed over his nose. “I can't be sure, can I? She still doesn't say a word.”

“So I'm here because you think I'm not safe with John.” Of course that was the reason – what else?

Mycroft opened his mouth as if he wanted to answer, but instead, he just nodded.

“In this case, shouldn't John and Rosie be here as well?”

He was sure that the flicker of hurt he had seen in his brother's eyes had not just been his imagination. But when he spoke, his voice sounded like acid. “Yes, and what about Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and your dear loved Miss Hooper? I'll get my people to bring him all here. Did I forget anybody?”

Sherlock bit his lip, hurt by his sarcasm even though he should really be used to it by now.

“Sorry, Sherlock,” Mycroft said to his surprise. “John has a gun, hasn't he? I doubt that Eurus is interested in your landlady, and Lestrade can look after himself.”

Sherlock did notice which name he hadn't mentioned again. “You know I didn't mean it.”

“Pardon?”

“What I said to Molly. You were there – she forced me to say it.”

Mycroft stood up. “Your sentiments towards Miss Hooper are of no concern to me. I will go to bed now. I'm sure you'll find everything you need. Goodnight.”

“I love you.” Sherlock closed his eyes in shock a second later. But it was out now. And really – hadn't it been about time?

Mycroft turned around to him very slowly. “What did you say?” he whispered.

“You wanted to know why I pointed the gun at my head instead of shooting you. That’s why.”

Mycroft just stood there, his mouth slightly open, his eyes full of terror. “You fell on your head when you got unconscious.”

“What?” Sherlock shook his head and huffed out a bitter laugh. “Your jokes have been better already. No wait – you never make jokes. And I don't either!”

“No, Sherlock, this is just the stress from this day. Tomorrow you'll be alright again.”

Sherlock was feeling as if he was dying inside. He had presented Mycroft his love and his heart, and this was his answer? He got up and without a further look at or word to his brother, he left the living room and headed for the door. He didn't bother getting his stuff from the guest room. Mycroft would certainly send someone to bring it over to John.

“Where are you going?” Mycroft was following him.

“Back to John. And if he doesn't want me to stay, I'll go to Baker Street and wake Mrs Hudson or sleep in the ruins of my flat. I'll be fine. Bye.”

“Sherlock, you can't leave! It's not safe!”

He turned around to his older brother in the door. “It's even less safe to stay here and have you break my heart even more than you just did. Bye.”

“Sherlock!” he heard again and then he was out on the street, the tears starting to flow.

 

# 2

 

“Sherlock, what happened? Come in!”

Sherlock stumbled into John's flat; he could feel how swollen his eyelids were, and his steps were heavy. He had never felt more tired and more hurt in his life. And more stupid. Because what had he expected? That Mycroft would take him into his arms and tell him he was feeling the same? Perhaps he _had_ fallen on his head…

“God, you're freezing! And where is your bag?”

“Left everything there. Couldn't stay…” Sherlock could feel he was starting to cry again. How pathetic could he get?

“What happened? He was mean to you, right? Oh I hate him…”

Sherlock managed a short laugh. “And I thought you like him better now? That didn't last long. And he wasn't mean. He was just shocked when I told him that… I loved him…” And this confession was too much, he burst out in hot, painful tears and in the next moment, he felt John's strong arms wrapping around him.

“Hush, dear, come, let's get you into the guestroom, I'll stay with you until you're asleep, and we talk about it tomorrow, okay?”

“'kay,” Sherlock mumbled, longing for falling asleep and forgetting the nasty world around him.

He had no idea how long he'd been sleeping when he woke up from angry, suppressed voices outside of his bedroom. In his dazed condition, he overheard only parts of the conversation.

_“…believe that you have the nerves… you come in here?”_

_“…brother… Oh please, as if I…”_

_“…leave him alone… enough harm…”_

_“…talk to him… me in there…”_

_“…tomorrow… sleep…”_

Finally Sherlock was awake enough to crawl out of the bed and tumble to the door. He opened it and four eyes were turning to him. “What's up?” he mumbled sleepily, his eyes searching for Mycroft's.

“Can I… talk to you?” Mycroft sounded shy and insecure. “I know you've been sleeping and I'm sorry to wake you up but…” He looked to John and then back to Sherlock. “I must speak with you.”

Sherlock nodded and silently asked John to leave them alone. The doctor gave him a stiff nod and walked into his own bedroom. Sherlock knew that at the slightest hint that he was not okay with Mycroft being there, John would come out again and probably bring his gun. “Come in, brother,” he said, barely able to control his voice. What would happen now? Would Mycroft explain to him why his feelings were inacceptable and sick? As if he didn't know that himself…

He climbed back into the bed as soon as he had reached it. Mycroft looked around, but the only chair was covered with Sherlock's clothes.

“Just sit down on the bed,” Sherlock said and blushed. “I mean, you can also put my stuff out of the way…”

“No, it's fine.” Mycroft sat down as far as possible away from Sherlock on the edge of the bed. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am. I… Sherlock, did you tell John about… your feelings?”

“Yes. Actually he deduced them when we were talking on the phone. Didn’t make much sense to deny it.”

“Oh, Sherlock…” He buried his face in his hands.

“Yes, I know. It's wrong and illegal and I'm sick and mad and totally stupid. Don't bother telling me that. I've been telling it myself for…” He broke off.

“For how long, Sherlock?” His voice was so quiet that Sherlock could hardly hear him.

Sherlock snorted. “Forever actually.”

“Oh God…”

“Oh please! It wasn't your fault! You never did anything to encourage it, God knows that! I… What?”

Mycroft had moved quicker than he had ever thought he could. He ripped Sherlock out of his lying position and pressed him against his chest. “You have no idea, Sherlock, no idea…”

Sherlock was too shocked to say a word, but he slung his arms around his brother's neck as if it would be forbidden the next day. Well, actually… “Does that mean you ... want me, too?”

“Oh yes, always…”

“Then why did you push me away earlier?” Sherlock stroked the back of his head and nuzzled his face against his neck.

“Because I was so afraid. I buried these feelings so deep in my heart.”

“That's why you always said that caring was not an advantage…”

Mycroft let his fingers slide over his back. “Yes.” Then he pulled back. “I'm still afraid. And this is as forbidden as it could get. Do you think John will keep silent?”

“Of course he will. He's my friend. And it's not forbidden to hug your brother.”

Mycroft pulled away and Sherlock could see despite the spare light that he was thinking: _God, I misinterpreted what he meant!_ He knew it had been a mean thing to say. But he was still Sherlock Holmes and for his behaviour earlier, Mycroft did deserve some punishment. He leaned forward and kissed Mycroft's soft lips. “Not sure about that.” He let his hand slide over his chest. “Hm. Okay I think as you wear too fucking many clothes.” He grabbed the visible bulge in Mycroft's trousers. “That on the other hand…”

“Don't make fun of me, Sherlock. Do you want it? Want me? I mean in a… sexual way?”

Sherlock stroked over his cheek. “Yes, brother mine. I want you. I love you.”

Mycroft stared at him and then he smiled at him in a way Sherlock had never even hoped to see. And then he was all over him, and finally, the ice between them was broken forever.


End file.
